The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

High-maintenance? My ego? I crack one lid to shoot daggers at the back of his head. All pretenses of politeness have dissolved. “Does my dad know you’re such a giant dick?”

Jonah doesn’t answer, and I’m glad for it, because talking makes my nausea worse. I push off my headset and go back to drawing long breaths through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth, fighting my body’s urge to evacuate its contents at any given moment as I’m bumped and jostled in our descent toward the runway ahead.

The tiny two-seater plane teeters side to side like a seesaw before the wheels touch the ground, bouncing several times and then finally sticking.

Miraculously, I somehow succeed in keeping my tacos down through it all.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we coast down the runway. To the right, I spy several large rectangular buildings in various colors—forest green, fire-engine red, navy-blue—with two commercial planes like the ones I flew earlier today. We head left, though, toward a crop of smaller steel-gray buildings, the largest of them wearing a white and aqua-blue sign that reads ALASKA WILD.

My heart begins pounding in my chest.

I was here twenty-four years ago. Too young to remember, but I was here, and I’ve imagined this moment countless times since.

A short, stocky guy wearing a fluorescent vest casually waves his orange sticks, guiding Jonah to a spot at the end of a line of six planes. In front of us is a row of four more. Behind them, another two.

All of them are larger than the one we’re in, I note.

I want to ask questions—Are these all my dad’s planes? What part of the airport are we in? Is the collection of colorful warehouse-­like structures actually the city airport? How many people work here?—but it’s become apparent that Jonah has no interest in enlightening me about anything, so I bite my tongue. I can ask Agnes. I’m assuming she’ll be more pleasant to talk to.

Or I can ask my father, who I’m about to meet.

The sudden urge to pee hits me.

No sooner has Jonah shut off the engine than he’s yanking off his headset, popping open the door, and hopping out with surprising grace.

I remain a while, though, enjoying the crisp, cool breeze that skates across my face, working like a salve for my churning stomach.

“Come on, let’s go!” Jonah barks.

I’m almost done having to deal with him, I remind myself as I slip out of my seat.

I stall at the plane’s doorway to size up the distance to the ground, struggling to figure out how I’m going to hop out in my wedge heels—while keeping my purse on my shoulder and my hat on my head—without falling flat on my face or twisting an ankle. I should have changed my shoes when I was pilfering through my suitcase to get the essentials.

Without a word of warning, Jonah seizes me by the waist with his giant hands and hoists me down as if I weigh nothing at all, earning my squeal of surprise. Setting me onto the ground, he then dives back into the plane to retrieve the nylon bag tucked in behind my seat. He unceremoniously drops it to my feet like he’s tossing trash to the curb. It lands in a puddle.

“Here. Puke all you want now.” He thrusts the plastic bag into my empty grasp.

I peer up at his face—still masked by all the mangy hair and sunglasses and baseball cap, pulled low despite the lack of sun. How long has he been growing that bush for, anyway? Years? There are long, wiry hairs sticking out in every direction. I guarantee it’s never seen a pair of scissors or a comb. Ever.

My disgusted expression stares back at me from the reflection of his lenses and my mother’s words about falling in love with a pilot suddenly hit me.

I burst out laughin

g. Is Jonah what she would call a “sky cowboy”?

As if I’d ever fall for this guy.

The skin between the bottom of Jonah’s aviators and the top of his unkempt beard flushes. “What’s so funny?” he asks warily.

“Nothing.” The cool wind picks up in a gust, sending strands of my long hair fluttering around my chin and threatening to lift my hat from my head. I brush away the strays and clear my throat. “Thanks for flying me here,” I say politely, keeping my expression flat.

He hesitates. I can feel his heavy gaze on my face and it makes me uncomfortable. “Don’t thank me. It wasn’t my idea,” he says, then flashes a tight, insincere smile, revealing straight, beautiful white teeth.

And here, I had assumed he’d written off all basic grooming and hygiene habits.

“Hello, there!” a female voice calls out, distracting me from thoughts of punching Jonah right in that perfect grill of his.

I gladly turn away from him, to see a petite woman marching toward us.